Samhain & the Ancestors– When the veil becomes thin

Some stories begin with an ending.I was about three years old when I first sensed that something could disappear without truly being gone. My great-uncle had died suddenly — my grandfather’s brother. I remember my grandfather bringing us the news. But I also remember the smell of autumn leaves, the heaviness in the adults’ voices, and the strange feeling that the world had both stopped and kept going at the same time.Maybe that was my first glimpse of the threshold — that fine line between here and there.Since then, death has never been a stranger to me, but a quiet companion.

Samhain* is the time when that companion steps a little closer.The days grow shorter, the air clearer, and somewhere between the rustle of leaves and the fog over the streets, a crack opens — the veil between worlds thins. My dreams become more vivid, more marked by the visits of my ancestors.Our forebears — those who walked before us — draw nearer in this season. Not as ghosts from horror films, but as memories, as warmth, as whispers reminding us that our roots run deeper than we think. Sometimes, they appear simply as dreams.

Death as a teacher

In our culture, death is often locked away — packaged into sterile rituals or drowned out by busyness. But Samhain invites us to look closer.It reminds us that impermanence isn’t a catastrophe but part of the rhythm.Everything that lives will one day die — and that’s where meaning lives.When we learn to embrace death, we lose a little of our fear of life.

For me, this time of year is about tending to connection — not only to my ancestors, but also to the parts of myself I’ve lost or am afraid to face. Old versions, former dreams, shed skins. They too are part of my story.

Death as a beginning — on letting go and being reborn

Samhain* reminds us that every ending is also a beginning. In many spiritual traditions — beautifully mirrored in Tarot symbolism — the Death card doesn’t signify finality, but transformation.Something old must die for something new to emerge. Letting go is not failure. It’s an act of trust — trust that winter won’t last forever, that after darkness comes light. It’s a conscious step into the unknown, a symbolic shedding of skin. When we learn to say goodbye — to old stories, expectations, or identities — we open ourselves to what we are yet to become. Samhain invites us exactly to that: not to fear death, but to honor it as part of life. Because true renewal never happens in the light alone — it begins where we dare to look into the dark.

Rituals for the ancestors

Around Samhain, I dedicate time to rituals of remembrance.Each October, I set up a small altar — a tealight, an old photograph, sometimes a cup of tea. I whisper names. I recall voices, laughter, the smell of Sunday kitchens and a certain perfume. Sometimes I cook a family recipe — nothing fancy, just something that tastes like home. Then I place a small plate of it on the altar — a symbolic meal, a conversation that transcends time.

One ritual especially close to my heart is the “dumb supper” — an ancient custom of dining in complete silence with the ancestors. No words are spoken; only candlelight and breathing fill the room.Every movement becomes deliberate. It’s as if you offer your ancestors a seat at the table and listen — without anyone saying a word.The silence feels dense, sacred — like a doorway opened between worlds.

I also love the tradition of dressing up and wearing masks at this time of year.Few people know that mask-wearing was once not a game, but a sacred act.By putting on the mask of a deity, spirit, or ancestral figure, people connected with its energy — becoming, for a moment, a vessel through which it could speak. For me, that’s a powerful symbol: when we disguise ourselves, we dive into other aspects of who we are. We remember that identity is fluid — and that, just like our ancestors, we too wear many faces.

Ancestral work in the city

You don’t need an old manor house or a misty forest clearing to feel close to your ancestors.Even in a city apartment — surrounded by concrete, sirens, and neon light — sacred space can be made. A windowsill can be an altar. A candle can open a portal in the middle of chaos.A few minutes of silence at night can be enough to feel your lineage — not just genealogically, but soulfully. Ancestral work isn’t about looking backward. It’s remembrance as resistance — against uprootedness, against forgetting, against the illusion of being alone.

Ritual ideas for Samhain

1. Befriending death

• Memento mori in the city: a daily reminder of impermanence — a candle, a leaf, a photo, a grain of sand on your desk.

• Autumn walk: collect leaves, observe their decay — a meditation on letting go.

• Journal ritual: write a “Letter to Death” — what can leave, what needs acknowledgment?

• Tea offering: each evening, place a small cup for the departed, pause, and breathe consciously.

2. Shadow work for city souls

• Shadow journal: each evening, write for 10–15 minutes: “What triggered me today? What feelings did I avoid?”

• Confrontation ritual: hold a small object (stone, candle) as a symbol of your shadow — touch it, look at it consciously.

• Mirror work: use people or situations as mirrors to explore your projections.

• Digital detox: 1–2 hours without social media before bed — pen and paper only, to feel what’s within.

3. Cycles of blood, earth, and time

• Menstrual ritual: light a candle, journal, meditate — release what no longer fits you. A spiritual cleansing of sorts.

• Moon ritual: write intentions or things to release during new or full moon.

• Seasonal meditation: mark transitions (equinox, Samhain) and consciously plan rest.

• Urban reclaim: use your lunch break to retreat inward, notice nature even in the city.

4. Between worlds — liminal spaces

• Threshold ritual: carry a small object across your doorway as a symbolic passage.

• Commute mindfulness: use moments on trains or elevators for short visualizations or breathing exercises.

• Life transition ritual: new home, job, or phase — light a candle, set an intention, release the old.

• Equinox balance: play with light and dark — morning or evening candles to sense harmony.

5. The political dimension of darkness

• Night walk: an act of protest against over-illumination, hustle culture, and constant productivity.

• Candle ritual: place candles in your window as symbols of protection — for yourself and marginalized voices.

• Writing ritual: write down thoughts or anger about injustice — then consciously release them.

6. Ancestral work & collective wounds

• Family chronicle: write down your ancestors’ stories — acknowledge trauma too.

• Ancestor ritual: light candles for female lineages, broken stories, lost voices.

• Community ritual: gather friends, share ancestor photos and stories, offer tea.

• Creative remembrance: draw or write symbols and memories for collective healing.

7. Darkness as a creative space

• Creative void: do nothing for 20–30 minutes — just silence or candlelight — then note what emerges.

• Dark meditation: sit in stillness for 10 minutes, feel the power of being unseen. Close your eyes, observe thoughts without judgment.

• Magical notebook: write down everything that arises from the dark — dreams, insights, whispers.

• Silent walks: no phone, just senses — let the city’s darkness inspire you.

8. Soul journeys in the dark season

• Dream or shamanic journey: use drum, sound bowl, candle — visualize inward travel.

• Inner parts ritual: ask “Which parts of me need attention today?” and write the answers.

• Dream altar: beside your bed, place small symbols, crystals, or candles — for conscious dreamwork.

• City portals: turn rooms into sacred spaces with scent, sound, or light — gateways for inner journeys.

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*When Samhain approaches, I feel that darkness isn’t empty — it’s full of voices.Full of stories that live on through us.The season of the ancestors reminds me that death isn’t an ending, but part of the cycle.That every falling — of leaves, of lives, of old patterns — nourishes something new.

And maybe that’s the real gift of this time: the knowing that we are all made of stories older than ourselves — and that as long as we remember, no one ever truly leaves.

*The word Samhain comes from Old Irish (pronounced roughly Sow-in or Sah-win) and literally means “end of summer.”In Celtic culture, Samhain marked the transition from the bright half of the year to the dark — the beginning of winter. It was a time for stillness, ancestor veneration, and bidding farewell to the old year.

With the Christianization of Europe, many pagan festivals were reinterpreted.Samhain evolved into All Saints’ Day (All Hallows’ Day), and its eve became All Hallows’ Eve — eventually shortened to Halloween. While Halloween today is often associated with costumes, scares, and sweets, its origin runs much deeper:Samhain was a sacred threshold season when the boundary between the living and the dead was believed to be especially thin.